Five Flames
by SkiesOverGideon
Summary: Five shorts about Sarek, Amanda, pon farr, and their relationship over time.
1. Now I'll be Bold as well as Strong

**Note: **I'm completely ignoring the fact that Abrams fridged Amanda in the 2009 movie for the purposes of this fic – which I don't want to set in the TOS universe because the reboot one has so many more interesting variables. Foremost among them is the fact that Vulcan exploded oops. There should be five chapters of this, hence the title.

* * *

She cannot sit still in the too-warm room, so she rises from the mat on the floor, the only protection between her bare feet and the stone, and begins to pace.

Nervous energy fills her, and only some of it is her own. The rest of it comes from her bondmate, her _sa-telsu_. He is nervous. More than that, he is afraid. Compounding both these things, making them that much worse, is the simple fact that they are logical.

He is Vulcan.

She is Human.

And it is entirely possible that in the next few days, he will kill her.

Amanda shudders in spite of the heat. They are underground, deep in the heart of a mountain with a barely pronounceable name. She doesn't mean to diminish the place's importance, because it _is _an important place. It is the ceremonial ground where the men of her soon-to-be husband's family take their mates for the first time, and it is because this place is so important that she doesn't attempt, even in her mind, to think its name. She would only mangle it, and that feels too dishonorable to her.

There is little to the Spartan apartment. Its decorations are spare, almost East Asian in their arrangement. In the small foyer where she has been instructed to await her husband is only the thin rug. The rock ground beneath her feet is warm, pulsing with quiet life, and cracked and pitted from age.

Beyond the foyer is a bedroom, and attached to that is a bathroom with only the barest of necessities.

The bond between her and Sarek fills with his eager apprehension, and Amanda stops pacing. She knows he is close to her because _he_ knows he is close.

She shudders again, trying and failing to shield him from her fear.

He has been nothing but honest with her. And open, far more open than she expected him to be. He sat with her for nearly two hours answering her questions about his time. Though it clearly pained him, he gave her scientifically thorough answers to her every query. She knows exactly what to expect, but she is still afraid.

Through their bond, he senses her fear, and she feels the change in him. He wants to destroy what frightens her. He wants to hunt down anything that might upset her and remove it from her life. But _he_ frightens her, and he cannot destroy himself.

She senses the moment when he considers keeping away from her, and she swallows convulsively. She tamps down her fear, recalling the two times they've had sex already. Once before the bond, once after. Both times, he was a generous, attentive lover. Keenly aware of her, he was gentle and kind, responding with an eager and soft touch.

The first time was a gift to her, a concession from him so that she could see if they suited in a physical way. It was logical, he still says, to assure her they were compatible.

The second time, he showed her how to use the bond to sense his pleasure. He taught her how to open herself to the things he felt, how to let his experiences influence her own, and how to project her pleasure onto him.

He explained the bond was a tool. She would need to use it.

Wrapping her mind around those memories, she tips back her head and runs her fingers down her neck pretending they are his. The soft caress tickles and causes fire to curl low in her body, and she feels his instantaneous response.

Pleasure burns through their bond, his apprehension fading, and she welcomes his pleasure into herself, accepting it as part of her own experience. His anticipation becomes hers, his need burns within her.

And all those strange emotions he feels, the dark and terrible ones that come from some primitive place inside him… they no longer seem so bad.

A Vulcan woman would know instinctively how to manipulate this bond, but she also would have had years to learn her bondmate. Amanda has had only three years, and she thinks she's done a rather remarkable job.

There is a brief flicker of humor from Sarek, coupled with potent arousal. He loves her laugh. He wants to hear her laugh more – and there again is his fear that he might damage her such that she will be afraid of him.

Something catches in her throat, a strange, sorrowful sort of affection.

_I think the fact that you're afraid of hurting me is proof enough that you won't_, she thinks, sending the thought toward him and the bond.

She knows the minute he receives the thought, sensing his hope, but he does not respond further, not with words.

Instead, her mind is flooded with erotic images, and she gasps, dropping hard to the thin rug on the floor of the foyer room. She sees images of him wrapped in her limbs, her head tipped back and breathless laughter spilling from her lips. Images of her astride him, her arms lifted over her head as she arches her back and his mouth closes around a taut nipple.

Heat, need, want, and lust hit her hard, making her skin burn. The light shift she wears suddenly feels like too much. Something darker, richer follows these feelings. It comes from deep within him, primal and raw, and she has no word for it.

So many of his feelings are like that, and she feels as though humans live with some kind of emotional blinders on. Everything he feels is so much more raw and visceral than her own pale, watery emotions.

Concern flashed through their bond.

_I'm waiting for you_, she whispers in her mind, and she feathers her fingers over her chest.

The shift is immodest by any standard. The straps of it are thin, the fabric sheer, and it falls perhaps half way down her thighs. The back swoops low, the front reveals a generous amount of cleavage, and it is so thin that it will be no trouble for him to rip it from her body.

His pleasure at that thought sends a wave of heat through her.

Now that she has opened herself to the bond and taken his needs into herself, the whole situation doesn't seem quite so frightening.

She wants him, desperately. They've been bonded – married – for two years. For two years, she has been effectively celibate. She might have convinced him to have sex with her, but she found she didn't need to. His own influence through the bond curtailed the bulk of her desires, and what it didn't, well.

A smile curls her lips. Intercourse wasn't the only way to gratify those needs. And he suggested, at the time of their bonding, that putting off intercourse would be logical. She wasn't initially convinced, but he proposed that by making her wait, she would want him all the more.

There were days she hated agreeing to that logic. But now that she waits for him, growing needier by that moment, she sees he was right.

Another burst of pleasure, sharp and piercing, shoots through her. He is pleased she understands his logic. Very pleased.

_Where are you?_ she asks him, growing increasingly agitated.

His answer is an impression of nearness, of a tunnel and need.

And then he is all around her, sweeping her into an almost violent embrace. Sarek's arms come around her, caging her against his body. He feels hotter than he ever has before, a burning flame consuming her.

His hands seek hers, and he presses his palms and fingers flush to hers as he drops his mouth to her neck and bites her. He sends her trepidation, uncertainty, and so, so much lust that she can barely breathe.

He overwhelms her. He always has. He is life and breath and air, and though he is terrifying in his furious need to have her, she rests in the calm center of the fiery storm knowing, with utter certainty, that he will not hurt her.

He clings to that knowledge. Her unshakeable faith in him is his anchor and lifeline as he soothes his bite with languid licks of his tongue.

Now that he has her, she feels a little of his need abate. But only a very, very little.

Dragging his hands over her arms, he kisses his way up her neck, his lips trailing sweet fire over her skin. He nuzzles her, purring gently against her ear, and she shifts closer to him, wanting—she doesn't know.

Her breath comes in heavy pants. Pleasure coils low in her belly, a steady pressure that demands satisfaction, and she doesn't know what she wants. She can't separate her wants from his, but she senses that he likes that.

Amanda expects him to catch her face in his hands and kiss her hard, with teeth and tongue. She expects him to claim her mouth with brutal intensity.

Instead, she feels a brief moment of puzzlement from him. He frames her face with his hands, his fingers at her psi points, and he whispers words in his mind and with his mouth against hers. "_Taluhk nash-veh k'dular_."

_I cherish thee_.

Implicit in those words is a question: _where is the logic in harming she whom I cherish? _

When he kisses her, it is slow and soft and sweet, with a measure of control she cannot fathom. She feels him burning. She burns herself. But he kisses her as though she is a dessert to be savored, as though he has nowhere else to be and nothing else in the world to do.

His lips ply hers with a tenderness that surpasses her comprehension. His fingers leave her psi points, sliding through her hair to hold her head still as his mouth shifts from hers to make a study of her face. His lips, dry and hot and oh so gentle, brush her cheekbones, her temples, her forehead. They slide in a sweep down the bridge of her nose to the tip of it, and his tongue flicks her skin playfully.

It is her laughter that sharpens his lighthearted kisses into a fierce hunger. She remembers the image he projected earlier of her breathless laughter as he took her, and he senses this, too.

He growls, the sound coming from deep within his chest, and her body responds to that sound with a flood of heat. She answers him aloud with a desperate mewl, not that he needs to hear her. He feels what she feels, and she can feel him.

All of him.

He settles one hand on the small of her back and draws her close, his mouth demanding on hers. His tongue traces along her lips in the way she taught him, seeking entry, but when she opens with a gasp, he doesn't seal his mouth to hers. With a languid, heated look that makes her tremble, he closes his teeth gently around her lower lip and pulls lightly.

His name falls from her lips of a moan, and she suddenly finds herself trapped between his hard, hot body and the relatively cool warmth of the wall. His fingers fist in the fabric at her waist, pulling it taut against her hip and thigh, and his mouth falls to her shoulder once more.

Slowly, knowing that a sudden movement will startle and unsettle him, she settles her hands against his chest. He wears a loose, open robe, with trousers and a tunic beneath it. The clothes are plain but serviceable. And easily removed.

She licks her lips at the thought of peeling them off his body, and he stirs against her, rolling his hips against hers in silent entreaty.

"I'm not glass," she mutters.

He sends her his concerns through the bond. To him, her bones are like twigs, her flesh is like tissue paper. He could shatter her as easily as she cracks an egg.

Amanda takes a deep breath. And bites him.

He tears the gown from her, and she makes a mental note to remember to provoke him this way in the future.

His mouth finds hers for a fierce kiss, one that, had he not bonded with her, would surely have branded her as his. She feels the kiss down to her toes, which curl against the rough floor as he rocks against her. His sensitive hands slide up her sides, and she feels what he feels – smooth, cool skin, the pounding of her heart, the expanding of her lungs as she inhales.

Everything about her is precious to him, and everything about him is inflammatory to her.

She slides her arms over his shoulders, linking her hands loosely behind his head, and returns his kiss. Her lips part, and his tongue meets hers, stroking and caressing. Her kisses are like a drug to him, one that soothes him even as it pushes him deeper into his insanity.

He needs her desperately now, and without breaking the kiss, she pushes his robe off his shoulders. There is nothing gentle in how she disrobes him, only the indelicate grasping of a woman who wants her lover naked and inside her, and her passions make his burn hotter.

They are trapped in a strange cycle, as though the bond exists only for them to inflame each other more. Every stroke of her hand over his warm skin makes her burn as he burns. The fires within him are in her, and though they are alien and strange, they no longer scare her.

Her husband is with her. He will protect her. He will keep her safe.

These thoughts are met with a rumbling groan from him, and he sweeps her into his arms. Her legs wrap around his naked waist, trapping his hard cock between them. The feel of him, a branding heat against her sensitive flesh, makes her sob.

He nuzzles her as he moves, each step rubbing him against her. The brush of his face against hers should be soothing, but it isn't. It makes her want more. She wants his kiss again – wants his tongue in her mouth, his hands on her skin, his cock in her body.

They tumble onto the bed, which is surprisingly soft under her. He stretches beside her, catching her wrists in one large, strong hand, and he obliges her with a long, thorough kiss that leaves her arching against air. She needs the heavy warmth of his body over her and between her thighs.

Contrary creature that he is, her husband wants to play with her. He nuzzles her cheek once more, lifting his head to catch her gaze with his. She inhales sharply, unable to look away as she feels his touch the underside of her chin and slide down her neck.

Her skin prickles and a shuddered breath escapes her. Her lips start to form a plea, and she senses his amusement through the bond. He thinks something, but not in words. Rather, she is left with the impression of deep, unmitigated possessiveness, the driving need to _have_ and _keep_, and though she knows those are _his_ feelings, they coil inside her, too.

His hand shifts, spreading across her collar bone, easily covering the expanse of skin above her breasts. His breathing changes, becomes harsher, and he drags his hand down, into the valley between her breasts.

His eyes have not left hers, and she cannot tear hers away.

Knowing precisely what she wants, he shifts his hand, cupping her breast, and at last her eyes flutter shut. She tips back her head as his fingers wander over her, stroking around her nipple. His nails scrape over her skin, and she shivers. His knuckles brush against the soft skin on the underside of her breast, and she keens. When his thumb flicks over her taut nipple, she nearly comes out of her skin, her back arching as she releases a quiet cry of pleasure.

He likes that. He likes making her cry out and likes knowing he is the source of her pleasure, that he is both sweet torment and assuaging succor.

"Poet," she gasps.

In response, he presses his lips to her earlobe, catching it briefly with his teeth. He pinches her nipple, making heat lance through her in an electric arc, and begins speaking. Poetry. Pre-Reform poetry falls from his lips like honey.

Vuhlkansu is not a particularly lovely language. It is full of glottal stops and harsh consonants. But Sarek makes it indescribably erotic, the words dripping with passion and lust as his fingers shift to her other breast.

He takes his time there, too, slowly exploring her skin. He uses the tips of his fingers, so much more sensitive on him than a human, and as he whispers what she assumes is explicit poetry in her ear, he sends little shocks of pleasure into her skin by way of their bond.

When he finally slides his hand to the plane of her stomach, she is shuddering and gasping beneath him, barely cogent enough to part her legs in silent entreaty.

Dipping his fingers between her legs, he breaks from his poetry to purr. He murmurs something else to her in Vuhlkansu, and she doesn't need to know all the words to grasp his meaning. He is thrilled beyond measure by how aroused she is.

She's almost embarrassed by it.

He growls softly, a warning.

_Almost_ embarrassed, she insists in her mind, spreading her legs wider and arching into his touch. He moves with her, though, anticipating her movements easily. He keeps his touch feather light, ghosting over her heated, needy flesh. He toys with her, keeping her on the edge for what seems like hours.

She opens her eyes to meet his and beg, but the plan goes awry when she sees the fierce, possessive pleasure on his face. He watches her with an unnerving intensity, his dark eyes soft and warm.

Nudging her cheek with his, he drags his finger across her opening, and she grabs wildly at his wrist, her orgasm swift and uncompromising. She thinks she makes him bleed with her nails, but he is so overwhelmingly pleased by her pleasure that she can't be sure.

She rides the waves of her pleasure, but he doesn't let them ebb. Instead, he presses a long finger into her, stroking her slowly, prolonging her orgasm until she is breathless and boneless beneath him.

It's good, so good, but it's not enough. She wants more of him. She wants him to feel her and feed the fires with his body.

With a murmur of denial, he shifts over her. His lips brush over her cheek, her mouth, her neck. His abdomen settles between her thighs, a pressure that does nothing to alleviate clawing need in her. Her orgasm has barely faded and already she wants another.

He thinks she is greedy.

His mouth closes around her nipple, sucking hard enough to hurt, but the hurt is entirely eclipsed by pleasure. Everything about him is dry and hot except his mouth – which is _wet_ and hot and exactly what she wants.

When his tongue brushes over her taut nipples, she digs her nails into his back. This encourages him, and it encourages her, and before long she's raking her nails over his back as he feasts on her with licks and sucks that drive thought clear out of her mind.

It's unfair that he seems to be capable of thought when she isn't, but she is mollified by the fact that his singular thought is for her pleasure.

His mouth drifts lower, and his intention flickers through the bond in the form of images: her legs draped over his shoulders, his face between her thighs, his tongue sliding through her slick folds. He projects clear images of her twisting and arching under him, of her toes curling against his back and her hands tearing at the sheets.

"Yes, yes," she agrees, and he rumbles a response against the skin of her hip.

After a moment's consideration, he touches his lips to her hipbone, and then his tongue. His teeth close lightly over her skin a second later. He releases the bite to lick her. Then he bites her again, and she grabs his hair, destroying what little remains of its severe style.

He delivers the same treatment on her other hip, marking her again, and she wishes she could wear next to nothing on Vulcan all the time.

He freezes over her, and she opens her eyes to find him watching her with a very dangerous expression.

It baffles her. She's not sure who he's mad at, but his lust for her body has shifted toward a lust for blood, and at first she doesn't understand why.

His hand curled possessively over her hip, and she recognizes that her answer will determine whether or not he tears himself from her body with the intent to kill every male on Vulcan. She arches one brow at him. "Everyone would know I'm yours, then, wouldn't they? If they could see those bites?" she asks.

_Mine_.

Her fingers brush over the delicate point of his ear. "Yours," she assures him.

Lust for her pounds through him again, and he spends several minutes ministering to the marks on her hips, nuzzling and licking them. He adds a few more for good measure, some little nibbles that won't bruise, but many more that will, and she can't begin to care. She wants his marks all over her.

His mouth drifts lower, and she lifts her hips in invitation, silently begging him to play with her, to touch her. But he, damnably thorough man, ignores her. His mouth touches her inner thigh as he curls his fingers around her heel.

Lifting her leg, he peppers her with kisses, tasting her salty skin. He pays particular attention to the back of her knee. It should tickle her, but instead leaves her gasping and grabbing great fistfuls of the covers beneath them.

Nipping lightly at her ankle, he presses his thumb against the center of the sole of her foot, and pleasure zings through her. A foot massage. When this is over, she will demand a foot massage.

Perversely, she realizes she doesn't want this to end. She wants him between her legs for the rests of their lives, licking and kissing and caressing, but what she'd _really_ like is for his mouth to—

She screams his name when he finally kisses her.

His tongue sweeps through her folds, testing the taste of her, and he finds it is precisely how he remembers it. She doesn't dwell on that in their bond except to discover that he savors her like a treat.

He licks her in long, slow strokes, taking his time to learn what makes her breath hitch and her back arch. He dips his tongue inside her, swirls it around her opening, and her body clenches convulsively.

She's certain she starts pleading with him to take her, but he ignores her.

Shifting onto his forearms, he closes his lips around that little bundle of nerves he adored so much their last two times in bed, and he slips a finger into her.

To him, she is cool, but not cold. The temperature of her body is an alluring contrast to his own, which she finds blazing hot. His every touch is a fiery brand, and she shudders and moans, twisting and writhing under him, desperate for him to touch her in _just_ the right way so she can come for him again.

He denies her that pleasure. He makes a game of it, bringing her to the very peak before backing away to nuzzle her thigh while his finger moves slowly, too slowly, inside her. The fifth time he does this, she is so delirious with need that she gouges his shoulder when she grabs at him, and he finally lets her come.

Her orgasm sweeps her under a wave of pleasure so strong she's fairly certain she's gone blind.

And he panics.

He's on top of her a moment later, his fingers at her psi points, his mind rushes over hers like a tidal wave. A very gentle tidal wave. Oh, there is a good deal of force there, because he is who he is, and he is a powerful telepath, but nothing in his mental touch hurts her. In fact, the full presence of him in her mind makes her come again.

He is relieved and confused and aroused all at once when she wraps her legs around his hips and undulates against him, keening with pleasure.

"Sarek." His name is an entreaty on her lips, a supplication she knows he can no longer deny.

He shifts between her legs, his cock brushing against her thigh and core. She arches against him, trying to meet him, trying to get him where she wants him most, and for a moment, they are an awkward, desperate tangle of limbs before he's inside her, filling her, and he's burning like fire, and she's a cool balm for his body and mind, and there is rest in her body, rest and fulfillment and peace and a crystal, perfect moment where she understands all of this – him, his need, the Vulcan people, the bond.

And then it's gone, replaced by the need to move.

He isn't gentle, not anymore. He drags one of her legs over his hip as he moves inside her, and it hurts a little, but it's such a good hurt. Even so, he doesn't like that she is in pain, and cradling her against his body, he rolls them over.

This is a tremendous show of trust for him, because he needs to move in her, to feel that friction of their bodies joining together, and now she controls the pace. But she needs as much as he does. Bracing her hand against his shoulders, she rocks against him, taking him deep and hard.

His fingers seek out her psi points, and he's in her mind again, completely connected to her in every way that matters. It is breathtaking and overwhelming, but more than either of those things, it simply feels so damn good.

He comes before her, with a roar of pleasure and satisfaction, and that's what tips her over the edge. It's a disorienting moment, one where she can't tell what she's feeling and what he's feeling. But once she realizes it doesn't matter, because there is no him and her, there is only one mind, one soul spanning two bodies.

* * *

For the next three days, whenever she's awake, he loves her. He builds her need to a fever pitch to match his own and then feasts on her arousal until she is mindless with it. He uses the bond to extract precisely the reaction he wants from her, driving her to the heights of pleasure and catching her when she falls.

His arms are the scope of her world. She wakes and sleeps in them, and he sees nothing illogical about it. She is his to protect, and it is easiest to protect her when she is in his arms.

When she hungers, he feeds her. He strokes her hair and holds her when she is too exhausted by his lovemaking to sleep. Sometimes, he croons Vulcan poetry into her ears.

He only lets her leave the bed when she needs to use the bathroom. The rest of the time, he is with her, even when they bathe, which she insists on late on the third day.

The only reason he agrees is because he wants to hold her in his lap and wash her before sliding into her from behind. There is some calculation to this thought, though, and she thinks the worst of the fever may have passed.

He is as ravenous on the fourth day as the first, but he is so very gentle with her.

She wakes alone on the sixth day. Completely and utterly alone. His presence is gone from her mind. She can't feel anything from him. It's as if he has been cauterized from her. There is a wall between them.

She does the most sensible thing she can. She panics.

Rocketing from the bed, she's halfway to the door before she realizes she's limping and the muscles in her legs are screaming.

She freezes, looking down at herself. Bruises and bite marks pepper her skin, and she aches everywhere.

Sinking to the ground, she draws her knees to her chest and trembles. The room is warm, but she is cold – almost frigid. The world swims around her, her vision dotting and tunneling. She sucks in a shuddering breath, feeling utterly alone.

Abandoned.

She doesn't know how long she sits on the floor. Time surely passes, but she can't feel its movement around her. The door to the cave-like room opens, and a Vulcan woman enters. T'Pau follows behind, and Amanda regards them both with blank incomprehension.

She knows them both, but she cannot comprehend their intrusion into her confused, empty world.

The healer murmurs to T'Pau, whose expressionless face somehow manages to convey a sense of bleak disappointment.

"Sarek," Amanda says, speaking into her knees. She lifts her eyes without moving her head, fixing her gaze on T'Pau. "Where is Sarek? Why isn't he here?"

T'Pau's lips press together ever so slightly. "You require medical attention."

Anger blossoms inside her. "I require my husband." But it fades quickly. She is tired and it hurts to breathe.

The healer urges her onto the bed, executes a quick exam, and declares that she will be fine with rest. Her injuries aren't permanent, and the worst of them is a pulled muscle in her groin (which leaves her red with embarrassment), a bite mark on her breast crusted with blood, and several bruised ribs.

After carefully cleaning herself in the tub, washing away the remaining bits of blood and allowing the heat to relax her aching, exhausted muscles, T'Pau takes her home. It is generous of her, and Amanda says as much.

T'Pau says it is only logical she care for her son's mate.

The house is quiet when T'Pau leaves her. Amanda knows there are at least twenty people home, but she doesn't see any of them – and she's looking. She doesn't want to be alone. She doesn't understand why her husband isn't with her. When she presses toward his mind, she finds only that smooth, impassable wall.

She spends an hour crying and pounding against that wall, but it doesn't come down.

Anger and resentment get her to her feet. A determination not to be weak forces her to the bedroom she shares with Sarek. She dresses in his clothes. She rolls the trousers around her ankles and ties them tight on her hips. His shirt hangs like a sack around her, the neck sliding over her shoulders and gaping at her neck, but it surrounds her in his scent, and she finds that comforting.

An hour later, when she decides she isn't disgusted with him or herself or the marks on her body, she discovers that chopping carrots into thin slices is equally comforting. Or perhaps just cathartic.

She attacks the carrots with vigor, intending to make a salad. But when she finishes cutting, she realizes she has far too many carrots for a salad. She attempts to make a vegetable stew, and succeeds passably.

She's sitting alone in one of the more comfortable parlor rooms of his massive house, wrapped in a blanket with her stew on her knees, when he finally comes home. He pauses in the doorway of the room, watching her.

"You weren't there when I woke up," she says. There isn't very much accusation in her voice. She's too tired and drained to be angry.

He hesitates, a charmingly human affectation he's surely picked up from her, one that likely thrills his mother. "I did not believe you would want me there." He swallows. "It was my intent to give you time to collect yourself."

"You abandoned me," she points out. "You closed the bond."

He looks at her with such loss on his face that it hurts her. "Would you have wanted me there?"

Amanda spoons the last of her stew into her mouth and sets the bowl aside. She holds out two fingers in the _ozh'esta_.

Sarek stares at her fingers as though they might grow teeth and bite him.

With a huffy sigh, she rises, letting the blanket fall away, and his expression changes.

Reading Vulcans isn't easy, but she's learned how to read him. They do have expressions, but they are such small changes that only the most studious of humans will notice them at first. His eyes widen – barely – and he inhales – slightly.

"You are wearing my clothing."

"Yes." She walks toward him, only stopping when she stands before him. She offers him her fingers again, and this time he brings his to hers without hesitation.

The wall between them – his wall – drops, and she feels everything he does. He is uncertain, confused, afraid that he hurt her, that she won't want anything to do with him anymore, that she will request they dissolve the bond, that she can no longer care for him.

He feels guilt for hurting her, shame for being unable to protect her from his passions, and a prevailing sense of failure in his duties to her as a bondmate.

"Sarek," she said, feeling almost exasperated.

A human man would have looked at her with the expression of a wounded puppy. Sarek merely tilts his head, quirking it to the side.

The fingers of her left hand brush over his face, a touch he finds cool and soothing.

"I couldn't stay," he says quietly. "You… I cannot remember it."

This shocks her, and she reels back, her body swaying. But she doesn't break contact with him. "You don't remember?"

He moves closer, one hand on her back to steady her, and she senses him justifying the touch as logical. He tells himself his hand keeps her from falling over. She's always amused by his attempts to explain away his behavior with logic.

"I remember you," he murmurs, and the truth of that echoes through the bond. He remembers the coolness of her body around his, the feel of her breasts beneath his hands. He recalls with perfect clarity the way her breath hitched and how she moaned when he touched her and tasted her.

But these moments are punctuated by pure, unadulterated rage and a hazy sheen of confusion and uncertainty. His memories are jumbled and uncertain.

"You didn't hurt me," she whispers, stepping into him, leaning against him. Her fingers stroke down his, urging him to meet her palm with his own. A frisson of electricity bounces between them where their skin touches.

"I am aware of your injuries."

She purses her lips. "You injured me, but you didn't hurt me. Sarek, we knew that was going to happen."

"It is indicative of a failure on my part, an inability to control myself."

She stares at him.

That first night, she finally comprehended the nature of his time and the bond between them. Now, she understands the deep shame of the Vulcan people.

She floods the bond with compassion. "Sarek, you're being illogical."

"My logic is flawless," he responds quickly, perhaps a bit sharply. Then his brows draw together. "You're teasing me."

Her lips quirk and she curls her fingers around his, lifting the back of his hand to her mouth. She kisses each of his knuckles. "You lost control of yourself."

"It is reprehensible."

"It's a part of your biology, Sarek," she says flatly.

He regards her silently for a handful of seconds. "Your acceptance of this is unexpected."

She gives him a rueful smile. "Have you forgotten that I was in your head that entire time?" she asks. His nostrils flare in response. No, he hasn't forgotten at all. "I wanted it as much as you did. But when you were gone this morning… That's when I was scared, Sarek. I felt abandoned when you closed the bond."

He assimilates this information with a slow inclination of his head, bowing it until his forehead rests against hers. He lets out a long breath, and she senses him relax. "It was a grave miscalculation."

"Yes," she admits, because there's no reason to lie to him. The bond is open between them again, and he can sense her mind through the touch of their hands and forehead. "But you won't do that again."

"No. I will not."

Now she relaxes, leaning against him. He slides his hand over her hip, very careful of her ribs. "I made stew," she tells him, deciding the matter is at rest.

"Plomeek stew?" he asks, and she detects a hint of hopefulness in his voice.

"Um. No."

He draws back to regard her with an arched brow. Skeptical. She senses amusement mixed with reticence about her cooking through their bond.

"It's more of a… all-the-vegetables-we-had-in-the-kitchen stew." His brow lifts higher. She scowls at him. "It's _good_," she protests. His brow lifts higher. "Fine, then you don't get any." The brow immediately drops. "Puppy eyes don't work on me."

"I do not possess puppy eyes, Amanda."

"Sehlat eyes, then."

"Nor am I a sehlat."

She scoffs, smoothing her hand over his ear to disguise her intent. He senses it through the bond anyway, but doesn't pull away fast enough.

He purrs as she scratches lightly behind his ears. "Good kitty," she coos. He doesn't correct her.


	2. I Shake and I Shiver to Feel You Breathe

**Note:** There's some Vulcan language being thrown around in here. If it's wrong, it's (obviously) my fault, but I've done my best. Feel free to correct me.

A refrigerator also makes an appearance here, and I'm only bringing this up because I feel like most people are going to think it's ridiculously out of place. According to Memory Alpha, food replicators weren't common place until TNG – though they had "food synthesizers" in TOS – so I don't want to drop a replicator in Sarek's kitchen. It also seems somehow wrong to me to envision Vulcan's doing anything other than preparing their food by hand. Because I can't think of anything futuristic and classy to call a 23rd Century refrigerator, I'm sticking with what works. We've been using "refrigeration machine" in one form or another for the past 200 years, so I have no intention of fixing what's not broken. This probably won't matter to anyone else but my neurosis compels me.

* * *

Amanda feels unhinged.

As she rushes to put the last of Spock's clothes in his suitcase, she feels Sarek pounding against her mind, pushing and shoving his way into her thoughts. He is less graceful than usual, but he wants to know everything – precisely where she is, what she's doing, why she isn't in his arms, under him, screaming his name as he—

She drops a reinforced carbon-carbon wall between his thoughts and hers, complete with a little door. She opens the door just a crack and projects, very, very clearly, _I am not done with your son, S'chn T'gai Sarek._

Her words are met by a flicker of confusion. _He is your son, too_.

_Right now? He's all yours_.

Slamming the mental door shut and then erasing it, she seals the suitcase and jumps to her feet. "Spock?" she calls, dragging it behind her as she exits his room and hurries, awkwardly, down the hall.

"Here, Mother," he says, appearing from behind a door, four books in his hands.

She stares at them. "Advanced Applications for Dilithium Infu—Spock, is that _really_ what you would call _light_ reading material?"

He considers the books and then fixes her with a baffled expression. "They are quite heavy, Mother."

"That's not what I meant," she mutters. "Come on. We're going to be late to Auntie T'Lin's, and you know how she feels about punctuality."

"To be late is illogical, Mother," he says, holding his books to his chest as he walks beside her. She's fairly certain each of those books could be used as cornerstones for buildings and that they easily weigh more than him.

Huffing, she hefts his suitcase as they reach their hovercar. "Be that as it may," she replies, balancing the suitcase on her hip as she opens the back door.

Spock looks at her with expectation. "Be what as it may?" he asks.

Since she has no response for that, she looks pointedly at the car. "In," she commands.

"You are flustered, Mother."

Bless his observant heart. She is flustered, yes, but she's also very aroused, which feels somewhat awkward to her, and is the primary reason she hasn't touched him all morning. This is all Sarek's fault, and he is all Sarek's fault – never mind the considerable effort they went through to have Spock – and all she really wants is to get to the caves, fall into her husband's arms, and spend the better part of a week in blissful sexual oblivion.

Especially because after, if the first time was any indication and she fully expects it was, Sarek will dote on her for months. He will spare no expense – not that he spares expenses for her anyway – to see her pampered, content, and comfortable. He claims such behavior is "logical." She attributes it to the fact that he loves her, even if he won't say as much.

"Car. In. Get."

Spock's little brows draw together in an exact replica of the face his father makes when she says something confusing. "That's not even correct if one applies Vulcan grammatical—"

She gives him the Mom Look.

His eyes go wide and he darts into the hovercar, sliding across the seat to make room for his suitcase.

Not even full-blooded Vulcan children disobey her when she gives them that look. She has worked on it for seven years, and she's quite proud of the effects it has on recalcitrant children. Even T'Pau has commented on its surprising effectiveness. She supposes T'Pau meant to compliment her, but like everything out of T'Pau's mouth she isn't sure if it _was_ a compliment or a critique of her inability to parent in the Vulcan way. She suspects it's some combination of both, which would explain why she usually feels pleasantly blindsided, if one can feel such a thing, whenever T'Pau speaks with her.

After all, she's doing an "adequate" job raising Spock.

Adequate her ass.

She slams her door a bit harder than necessary and considers the fact that her agitation, like everything else today, is very much her husband's fault.

Taking a moment to compose herself, she gives the computer T'Lin's address. The hovercar backs out of its bay, the door closing behind it, and sweeps into the air.

"Why do I have to stay with Il T'Lin, Mother?"

They haven't explained pon farr to Spock yet. Sarek doesn't really want to, in spite of the rampant illogic of it, and Amanda has no idea how to. To date – meaning once – her experience with it has been mind-blowing sex, followed by abandonment, followed by understanding of the shame of an entire race, followed by months of indulgence.

She doesn't think Spock will understand her explanation.

And given that they've already found a bondmate for him, she thinks they really do need to sit down and explain some things. She wanted to tell him when they told him about T'Pring, but Sarek said no and that he would take care of it.

He hasn't, and while it's not like him to be avoidant, she doesn't blame him for this.

"As I've told you, your father and I are taking some personal time," she says, since that's as good an explanation as any.

Spock leans forward, stretching the length of his safety belt, and peers around the front seat at her. She hopes she's not blushing, but it's so hot on Vulcan that she's never sure if she's flushed, overheated, or at some bizarre equilibrium.

"You are obfuscating."

She stares at him. "When did you learn the word _obfuscating_?"

He beams in the way Vulcan children beam – with eyes bright from succeeding at an intellectual endeavor. "I have been reading the Oxford Dictionary for Federation Standard—"

This is her life.

"—and I wished to put to use some of the words I have discovered such that—"

_My Life with Vulcans_, she thinks with humor. _It'll be a hit holo-show with everyone except Vulcans, and then the High Command will exile me for making them the butt of every joke_.

"—you could see my personal studies are progressing at a rate acceptable for a Vulcan my age."

The frayed temper that Sarek's hormones have contributed to all week nearly snaps. "Is someone saying you're not progressing at a rate acceptable for a Vulcan your age?" she asks, thinking she could tell Sarek this and watch him go on a bloody rampage.

No.

That would be unfair to him. It would be reprehensible, actually, a horrific breach of trust and she's rather appalled at herself for thinking it.

"No, but I discovered a book relating developmental milestones for children and having familiarized myself with the concepts presented, I wished to—"

"Spock."

"Yes, Mother?"

She cups his little face in her hands and lowers her forehead to his. She feels his affection through their familial bond. "You are absolutely perfect in every way, and you don't need to worry about impressing me."

He purses his lips. "My eyes are too far apart to be considered aesthetically pleasing, Mother."

"Your eyes are perfect."

"According to—"

"Spock," she says patiently. "Am I not your mother?"

His brows draw together. "I don't understand the nature of your query, Mother."

"Thank you for the acknowledgement," she says, as she thinks, _Who says Vulcans aren't funny?_ "As your mother, I believe I'm within my rights to declare whether or not you're perfect. Don't you agree?"

She leans back and watches him chew on this idea. Steam is all but pouring out of his ears by the time they arrive at T'Lin's. Through their bond, she can sense him attempting to figure out how to respond logically to her question without also insulting her.

She hopes the conundrum will keep him busy during his stay with T'Lin.

Helping him out of the hovercar and hauling out his books and suitcase puts a considerable strain on her. She hasn't quite adjusted to Vulcan's heat, and she doubts she ever will, but she likes it. It's so much less _wet_ than Seattle, and far less humid than San Francisco. But it's still an arid desert, and there's not much difference, in her mind, between thirty-five degrees with one hundred per cent humidity and forty degrees with no humidity.

Both are equal in their terribleness. At least Vulcan's heat will be far more tolerable when she's naked.

She's shocked to realize her anticipation borders on giddiness and then supposes she shouldn't be shocked at all. Who _wouldn't_ look forward to mind-blowing sex – quite literally – and months of pampering after? Admittedly, she hopes to get through without any bruised ribs this time.

How would she explain that to Spock? _Don't worry, darling, your father just threw me against the walls of a cave before fucking me silly_ probably wouldn't go over well.

Dragging Spock's suitcase to the door, Amanda knocks twice.

"Isn't Il T'Lin expecting us?" Spock asks.

She's gratified that Spock doesn't seem to know precisely how T'Lin is related to him. Amanda is fairly sure T'Lin isn't an aunt in the direct sense. It's more likely that T'Lin is related to them third-hand. Sarek's clan of families and how they relate to each other confuses her so much that she's given up trying to figure out who specifically is who. Spock opting for the general term for a female relative makes her feel a bit better about this.

"She is," Amanda replies, knocking again.

"Then would it not be most prudent to simply enter?" Spock asks, reaching for the door.

It swishes open before she can stop him, and T'Lin stands before them looking imperious and somehow glacial in spite of Vulcan's heat.

Spock lifts his hand in the _ta'al_. "_Dif-tor heh smusma_, Il T'Lin," he intones with a serious face.

"_Sochya eh dif_, Spock," she responds, returning the _ta'al_ to him. She shifts her gaze to Amanda and opens her mouth to speak.

Amanda cuts her off. "Live long and prosper, yes, thank you, and peace and long life to you, too, I'm sorry to be rude, but I really do need to go."

"Mother is late," Spock announces with all the delicacy of a sun going supernova.

"Yes, I am," Amanda says at the same time T'Lin replies, "Yes, she is."

_Vulcans_, she thinks, and she feels her husband's curiosity at the thought. He must be pressed up against her impenetrable wall.

Or maybe her mental block isn't as well constructed as she thinks it is. He's had sixty-odd years more experience with mental blocks and bonds than she has.

_Amanda_.

He's through the wall, suddenly filling her mind, and Amanda feels like she's burning from the inside. The pain of it is nearly unbearable.

_I need to say good bye to our son_, she tells him blithely.

His presence retreats, but the fires don't go away. Figuring it won't get any better, she leans down and offers Spock two fingers. He touches them with his own. "Be good," she tells him. "Mommy and daddy will see you in a week."

"I am aware of your itinerary."

_Vulcans_, she thinks again, because, really, only a Vulcan seven year old would use the word itinerary. "Have f—" She pauses. "Have a pleasant time," she says, not wanting to embarrass him overmuch in front of T'Lin. "And thank you again, T'Lin."

"No thanks is needed," T'Lin responds, stepping aside to allow Spock into the house. She takes his suitcase and closes the door a moment later, and as soon as she does, Sarek's need hits her again.

Amanda gasps with the force of it, stumbling back to the hovercar and telling it to take her to the caves.

He flits through her mind while the car drives, touching and caressing her with his thoughts. She doesn't understand how it works, only that it does, and within minutes she's sucking in great mouthfuls of air. Her clothes are too hot, too tight, too restrictive. She wants to tear them off. _He_ wants to tear them off.

She pushes against his mind, sending him a mental image of him using his mouth to undress her. She imagines it as a slow, almost tortuous process where he maps each exposed plane of skin with his lips and tongue.

He reminds her he has done this before on several occasions and that all he wants at the moment is her body clenching around his as he pleasures her.

_And here I've thought of you as a poet_, she thinks.

He responds by filling her mind with the image of her pressed against a wall, his hands on her breasts and hips as he moves with deliberate slowness, drawing her pleasure out until she can barely stand.

She wants this more than anything. Is utterly consumed by her need for it. She checks the computer, wanting to know where she is in relation to the caves and to him.

"Oh," she says.

Concern and apprehension fills their bond. He doesn't understand why she's surprised or why there's a nervous pit forming in her stomach. It's his feeling but her concept, and he is suddenly concerned that there's a gaping hole in her abdomen. But he feels no pain through their bond, so this must be illogical, except she's thinking—

She settles her hand against her stomach to prove that _she_ is quite fine.

The hovercar, on the other hand, appears to have run out of power.

He insists that's not possible.

"Oh, but it is," she says, realizing she didn't actually charge it the previous night.

The fact that she has overlooked something so monumental takes him aback and actually knocks some of the lust back. Fear replaces it.

"Shh, shh, no," she murmurs. "I'll come to you. I'm not far from the house. Let me contact emergency services, and I'll get the bi—I won't get the bike?"

He is adamant that she not take the bike, and she realizes it's because he's turning around.

"Why are _you_ not there yet?" He has no excuse. "No, you don't. Sarek, can we even do this at the house?" He doesn't see why not. It's empty. "But what if someone comes back!" He reminds her she gave the household staff the week off. "But what if!" None of them have a reason to return to the house.

She considers the dead hovercar. She considers him, his need for her that is a loud roar in the back of her mind she can only barely ignore. She considers the empty house.

Heaving a sigh, she says, "If T'Pau finds out about this and rides me for it, you'll be on the couch for the next month."

His response is an explicit image of her riding him, her back arched, her head thrown back, and his name on her lips as he holds her hands in his. She can't help the moan that spills from her lips, her hands sliding over her thighs. Every part of him that's in her mind sharpens with interest and eager anticipation.

"If the point of this is procreation, you… watching me is hardly logical," she says, clenching her hands on the fabric of her skirt.

Amusement coupled with desire tickles the back of her mind. Then he presses his urgency upon her, and she murmurs reassuringly as she contacts Vulcan's very efficient emergency services.

They'll care for the hovercar; she tells them she won't be there by the time they arrive, and because they are Vulcan they don't ask questions. It's entirely possible they suspect she won't be at the car because she'll be with her husband. It's what she would think if pon farr was a thing humans did. But they're Vulcan, not human, so it's equally likely they won't think anything at all.

He nudges her mind.

"I'm dithering, I know," she says, striking out across the arid plane between her and their home.

They live on the outskirts of Shi'Khar. She would consider it suburban – they're only twenty minutes from the city – except for the fact that their house is the only one for miles in any direction. It surprises her how much urban sprawl Vulcan doesn't have.

His agitation increases as he approaches their home from another direction, and she increases her pace. By the time she's within sight of the house, she's running, her skirt hiked up over her knees. She's hot and sweating, and only a small part of that is because he's waiting for her, wanting her.

She flings herself at him when she reaches him, wrapping her arms around his neck and pressing flush against his body. Her fingers slide into his hair, disheveling it, and brush against the tips of his ears as he grabs her hips and kisses her fiercely. His lips consume her, the scalding heat of his mouth an unbearable pleasure.

Applying a gentle pressure against her back, he urges her to move with him into the house. She follows because she can't fathom doing anything else. To let him move away from her would be to drown.

His hands stroke her back, comforting, reassuring. He won't let her drown. He will protect her. She knows this as surely as she knows her own mind – because his mind is hers.

The door shuts behind them, and he sags against the wall, still kissing her. His kisses are soft and drugging, pulling her into a hazy fog of pleasure. He likes that he can confound her mind and wrap her up in feeling, and he likes that she has no inhibitions about it.

His hands sweep over her back to find the buttons at the back of her gown when the door chimes.

The noise that explodes from his throat isn't civilized. He sounds more animal than man, and the look in his eyes as he tears his mouth from hers sends terror skittering down her spine. Fear sinks claws into her muscles, cooling her ardor and adding to his rage. His anger is split between whoever is at the door and her sudden withdrawal from his lust.

"Sarek," she says, attempting to catch his face in her hands.

He snaps at her with his teeth and yanks away, setting her behind him as he prowls toward the door.

His murderous intent is black and viscous in her mind, a sticky sludge that turns her stomach. He has no qualms with murdering whoever happens to be outside that door. This unknown is a threat to him and to his ability to take his mate.

For a moment, his mind threatens to subsume hers. She flounders in it, not sure which of the thoughts in her head are hers and which are his. She sees flashes of maimed bodies and blood, and some part of her yearns to see him defend her. Another part of her screams that he doesn't need to defend her. No one is going to hurt her.

A strangled sound comes from her throat, and Sarek freezes, caught halfway between her and the door. He is torn by his need to protect her, not sure if he needs to destroy the threat at their door or wrap her in his arms and use his body to make hers sing.

"That," she gasps, trying to picture it in her mind.

The door chimes again, and the chime makes up his mind for him.

He whirls toward the door, moving with practiced, martial grace, and she can imagine clearly how the bones of the intruder's neck will break under her hands. She can picture his face as the life drains out of him, the terror and the fear. She exults in knowing she will protect her mate, and—

Flinging herself forward, she wraps her arms around him as the door opens. Her hands on his chest are somehow capable of holding him back. He goes still, and she can't imagine the look on his face, or the look on the face of whoever is on their doorstep.

Her heart pounds against his back and in her ears, and she rubs her cheek over the rough fabric of his jacket. _Need you_, she whispers into his mind.

She hears the sound of quickly retreating footsteps.

He's angry as the door closes. He's angry that she held him back from the threat to her, and there is nothing gentle in his eyes when he turns in her arms to face her.

Fear spikes through her. This is the danger with his time; she knew it last time, she knows it this time, but last time she didn't see more than a glimpse of it. Now, he has been driven to the edge of what little, ragged control he has by whoever was at the door. She feels the swirling conflict in him. He wants to destroy the man – the human man – who came to the door, perceiving him as a threat to his mate. Some small, still lucid part of his mind recognizes this frightens her and that it is his duty to protect her from the things that frighten her – even himself. But he burns for her, and there is a twinge of fear, of stark terror really, that she will refuse him.

This situation is familiar to her. It's like what happened last time, but worse, and she has to deal with it directly. This is part of what it means to be a Vulcan's wife.

Swallowing, she looks up at him with a tentative smile. The smile cuts through him. She can feel his pain. He doesn't want a _tentative_ smile on her face, but he is unsure of himself and doesn't know what to do to make her truly smile. He knows what he wants, but he's fairly certain that acting on what he wants will only scare her away.

"So logical, _sa-telsu_," she murmurs, mustering her courage. Her hands spread across his back, her breasts press against his chest. Just her nearness to him is enough to make her feel a tickle of arousal. _Olozhika-osa-telsu t'nash-veh_, she whispers in her mind. Her logical, honorable husband.

He slowly, so very slowly, sets his hands on her hips. Watching her, he lowers his forehead to hers. He trembles in her arms, vibrating with his leashed need for her.

She turns her face to the side, and for a moment, his hands tighten almost painfully. He thinks she's rejecting him. But then her hair slides away from her neck, and her eyes flit to his, a playful smile on her lips.

With a groan, he sinks his teeth into the skin of her neck, marking her as his. It hurts for a bare moment, a flash of pain that is overwhelmed by his pleasure pouring through the bond between them. She gasps, lost in the powerful sensation of it.

The impression of words echo in her mind, the feeling of a complete loss of self and of control and of substance as he releases the bite to run his tongue over the marks he's given her. And as always, he hangs on a knife's edge between passion and rage, and she is the one who determines which way he swings.

He is still trembling, still struggling to keep from destroying anything that might cause her harm or fear – and he is considering destroying himself for her, too.

"No, no," she murmurs. _Rai, rai, osa-telsu_.

He whines softly against her neck, a plaintive sound, asking her to show him whether she wants him to stay or go.

Closing her fingers around his wrists, she removes his hands from her hips and takes a step back. Pain – and rage – flickers across his face and through their bond. His muscles are coiled, and he's ready to jump on her and drag her to the ground – she can see it in his mind, and she can see that this ends with them both naked and entwined – when she pulls the front edge of her gown free from its buttons.

Vulcan clothing, if nothing else, is suspiciously easy to get into and out of.

The gown falls about her ankles in a heap, leaving her in naked. He stares at her, somehow baffled by this, as if he doesn't understand that his wife is, in fact, standing nude in front of him.

She lifts one hand, beckoning him forward, and he launches himself at her. His arms come around her, and when they hit the floor, she lands safely on top of him. Then she's under him, his hands everywhere on her body, frantically stroking, touching, and his teeth catch her skin in little bites she knows will bruise.

She's not entirely certain how he gets his pants off, but he's suddenly inside her, stroking the flame of her need, making her burn for him as brightly as he burns for her. His fingers brush her psi points, and she closes her eyes against the brilliant surge of white hot passion that washes through her. She gasps his name before she's lost in the swirl of his mind.

The first time they did this, his mental presence overwhelmed her. But she's used to him being in her mind now and has learned how to ride the waves of his thoughts. They buoy her in warmth and pleasure, creating frissons of pleasure that skitter down her limbs like fleeting caresses. He uses his mind to arouse hers, applying gentle pressure here and there to stimulate her, to make her arch into him and cry out with delight.

He keeps her on the floor for the better part of two hours, bringing her to one earth-shattering climax after another until she's boneless in his arms. Then he bundles her against his naked chest, having shed the rest of his clothes at some point, and carries her to the kitchen.

She floats in his mind, weightless like one floats in a sea, and watches his thoughts come and go. They are as efficient and methodical as he always is, even in his time; it is simply that what he would call _logic_ has been overridden by his primal urge to mate with and care for her.

It's touching in an archaic sort of way, but she finds she doesn't mind at all when he takes a bowl of fruit out of their refrigerator. Her eyes widen with delight when he offers her a strawberry. Smiling, she lifts her hands, waiting for him to drop the strawberry onto her palms.

He gives her a blank stare that somehow manages to convey his amusement.

With a sigh – _stubborn, demanding man_, she thinks at him – she leans forward and parts her lips.

Poor man, he thinks he's just going to feed her, that he's going to care for the hunger gnawing lightly at her stomach. He has no idea what she wants to do with these fruits. Licking her lower lip, she wraps her mouth around the lower half of the succulent strawberry, her eyes on his as she bites down. Sweet, tart juice fills her mouth, and she pulls back to chew and swallow, watching him watch her.

He doesn't care for strawberries, or most Terran fruits, but there's hunger in his eyes as he stares at her mouth. She feels a bead of moisture on her lips, and before she can lick it away, his mouth is on hers, his tongue sweeping over her lips and then into her mouth.

And now he knows all those thoughts she has about what two people can do with a fruit.

Groaning at the taste of her and the strawberry, he steps between her legs and pulls her against him. He's hard again, he wants her again, but he thinks it's more important to see to her continued nourishment.

She thinks it would be nice for him to make love to her again, and because she thinks it while still floating in the currents of his mind, he hears her. Quite clearly. And it's equally clear he's amenable to this now that he's certain their desires align.

He shifts her with a firm hand at the small of her back, scooting her forward on the counter until she's more on him than on the cool ceramic. He presses into her again, a quiet groan on his lips, and offers her another bite of strawberry as he moves.

She shivers from the intimacy of it. Vulcans don't touch their food with their bared hands. Ever. For him to feed her from his own hand is indescribably erotic to her, even more so as he moves slowly inside her.

Discarding the top of the strawberry, he plucks another from the bowl beside them. He bites into it, and she tastes it the way he does. It's too sweet to him, but she sends him her impression of the taste, the fresh tartness of the fruit as the skin breaks and juice floods her mouth, and then he's kissing her.

She moans against his mouth, shifting her hips impatiently against his, wanting him to move harder, faster. He is content to kiss her languidly, his mouth open and scorching hot, and she doesn't understand why he isn't taking and taking from her like last time, why he is so willing to play when she wants more.

The piece of strawberry tumbles its way into her mouth from his, bringing with it his uniquely alien taste. It makes the strawberry better, more savory, and she keens softly as she pulls back to chew and swallow.

He watches her with dark, intense eyes, the very corner of his lips quirking the slightest bit. His knuckles brush over her neck, and she shivers, her eyes fluttering shut. Something cool and wet follows the same path of his fingers, and when he sets his tongue to her skin, she tastes strawberry juice on his tongue.

He rumbles with pleasure, thrusting harder into her, and she arches against him, setting her hands on his upper arms. She slides one hand over his shoulder, up his neck, into his hair so she can stroke the tender tips of his ears.

Pleasure fizzes through her veins, a slow, simmering boil instead of the burning heat she's anticipated.

He drags the strawberry across one nipple and around the swell of her breast, and his mouth follows. The strawberry is cold, his mouth is hot, and she can feel her touch on his ear deep inside her like a warm rush of water over her skin.

The strawberry makes its way back to her mouth, his lips and tongue still following the sweet trail. She finishes the rest of it and then turns her attention to his fingers, licking the taste of the fruit from his skin.

He watches her as he drops the strawberry into his other hand and discards it, and she senses his fascination with her lips. He watches her mouth close over his fingers, watches her suck and swirl her tongue over his fingertips, and he groans softly.

Her teeth dragging gently against the pads of his index and middle fingers are what finally set him off. Burying that hand in her hair, holding her hip with the other, he yanks her hard against him. Pleasure lances through her, and through him, and she loses herself in the swirling sensation of their bodies joining in a passion she can't begin to comprehend. It overwhelms and engulfs her, burning her with its intensity.

But he's there with her, shielding her from the full might of it, wrapping her up in himself until there is no difference between them. They are one being in two bodies, and it's so perfect, so beautiful, that she sobs when she climaxes – and he kisses away her tears.

What is perhaps most surprising is that he understands. His eyes are wet, too.

She thinks he'll whisk her to the bedroom then, but instead he bundles her into his arms again, her legs linked loosely around his hips, and carries her and their bowl of strawberries to one of the estate's many sitting rooms. He settles them comfortably on a low-standing couch with her cradled between his legs and sprawling across his chest, and he spends the next thirty minutes feeding her in slow, measured amounts. He carries her back to the kitchen to procure a glass of hirat juice for her.

He takes her again, up against a wall just outside of the kitchen, his pace sweet and gentle as he croons to her in Vuhlkansu. He tells her she is perfectly formed, her eyes are night-bright and her hair is moon-light. He whispers to her that her skin is the softest silk, and her body the coolest succor, and she comes to a shuddering, panting release in his arms.

Stroking her hair, he carries her somewhere else. She isn't sure where, but they settle again, and he urges her to nap. She does, too exhausted to think of doing anything else. Even in her dreams, she floats on the currents of his mind. She sees herself as he does, as a precious, fragile treasure. She is his salvation and his hell, capable of offering him redemption or destroying him. If he has one weakness, it is the depths of his feelings for her and their son.

* * *

Sarek collects Spock from T'Lin's several days later. Amanda remains at home, soaking in a tub and staring at the ceiling, considering her husband. His presence is all but removed from her mind, and she appreciates having the privacy for her thoughts. This distance isn't the same as the abandonment the first time, but rather his natural inclination to give her the opportunity to review the events of his time without his influence.

He is equal parts repulsed and satisfied, and it bothers him that he can't settle the apparent dichotomy.

She, on the other hand, is completely satisfied and a little curious. She wishes she had another woman to talk to about pon farr. Briefly, she entertains asking T'Lin or even T'Pau. Just to see their faces. She thinks they'd go sheet white under their warm olive-green coloring.

With a quiet hum, she rolls in her tub, reaching for a soft cloth and soap. Gently, she rubs herself down, wincing when she passes over a particularly sensitive bruise on her breast. She isn't so sore this time, which she thinks is because she and Sarek haven't altogether foregone sex for the past seven years. In fact, aside from her bruises, she's quite fine. He wasn't as rough. He was, in fact, quite gentle.

She wonders why, meandering through her memories of the past week. They're a little fuzzy around the edges but only because she can't separate each time Sarek took her from the last. The entire week consisted of him holding her, feeding her, and coupling with her in turn – in nearly every room of the estate.

She's fairly certain she'll never be able to enter one of the private studies ever again without turning scarlet and going up in smoke.

Through the bond, she feels Sarek's faint amusement at the thought, followed by a flash of admiration for Spock. Spock regales his father with an essay. He has titled it _On the Perfection of Mothers_. It is very philosophical. She thinks it's marvelous.

Sarek is jealous.

_To be jealous would be illogical._

"I thought you were giving me some alone time," she says, brushing the cloth over her shoulder.

_Forgive my intrusion, ko-telsu._

"It's no intrusion, Sarek." Her words are warm, infused with her smile. "But you're still jealous he didn't write an essay for _you_."

He grumbles in her mind, and she sinks further into the warm water, letting her washcloth drift away from her. With a contented smile, she closes her eyes.

She doesn't know what provoked the change in him this time, but she does know she has no preference – both times were rather remarkable, each for its own reasons. She has to admit, however, that not having bruised ribs is rather nice.

He winces.

"Intruding," she says in a singsong voice, but she doesn't care, and he knows it. He settles into his usual place in her mind, though he keeps himself distant from her present train of thought. He won't stop her from reflection, but he doesn't want much to do with it.

Maybe, she thinks, he was gentle because he knew how scared she'd been at the depth of his anger. It had been a great, black cloud sweeping across the plain of her mind, and she was a small desert shrub with shallow roots. He would have crushed her with his rage. Maybe he recognized that at the time and sought to make it up to her with sex that was as gentle as it was emotionally overwhelming.

She likes that conclusion. He might not – he isn't offering his opinion, of course – but she finds it satisfying.

_Will your bath be finished when we return?_ he asks.

"Oh, yes," she murmurs sleepily. A frisson of alarm skitters down her spine. His feeling, not hers. "I won't fall asleep in the tub, Sarek."

_You're very tired_.

"Mmm."

_You should retire. Perhaps a nap?_

A smile curls across her lips. "You're fussing," she says.

_I am not _fussing_, Amanda. I don't _fuss.

"Fuss fuss fuss."

_Amanda, I am not—_ He breaks off, and she senses him withdraw his attention to his son, who is summarizing, in rapid-fire Vuhlkansu, the entirety of his book on advanced dilithium what's-its. She only knows this because Sarek knows; half the words Spock uses are ones she doesn't recognize.

Pleasure floods their bond, and an impish grin replaces the smile on her face. "Pride," she says. "You're proud of him." He's thrilled that Spock is taking an interest in something that relates to astrophysics.

_It is not pride_.

"You sound like a kitten that's been rubbed the wrong way."

_I assure you, I have been rubbed quite well the past few days_.

She has no response to that. Except a good deal of feminine satisfaction.


	3. Even the Stars They Burn

**Note:** Sarek gets violent in this one.

* * *

They wait for their shuttle off Andoria, tense and unhappy. Sarek vibrates with barely contained energy beside her, and Amanda tries to soothe him through the bond. She projects calm and peace, trying to imagine the spiraling sand eddies common on Vulcan. She finds them restive. They simply remind him of home, where he desperately needs to be.

He had hoped to put off his time through intensive meditation, thus enabling him to see to a dispute on Andoria. His success was minimal.

"I will speak with the staff about our shuttle," he declares, moving to rise.

Amanda rises with him, deftly stepping in front of him and blocking his progress. He regards her with an expression of faint upset.

"We must go," he says softly, modulating his voice so no one else will hear.

Not that there are many people near them. As an ambassador, he needn't wait for a shuttle with everyone else at a starport. They have a private room, secured by Vulcan guards.

She knows they need to leave – they don't have much time before he will need her – but there is an ice storm ravaging the surface of the planet. It started the previous day, and all forecasts suggest it will last another week and a half at the very least. They are trapped.

"We can manage here," she says, offering him the _ozh'esta_.

He touches his fingers to hers, and electric awareness of him zings across her skin. Little frissons of anxiety turn her stomach and make her flesh prickle. His mind sinks into hers, a trembling weight, and she closes her eyes to brace herself against the enormity of his presence.

_I cannot_, he whispers in her mind.

"_We_ must," she replies, unwilling to let him take all responsibility for his time upon himself. "We can't leave." She shifts closer to him, resting the back of her hand against his abdomen. His knuckles brush over her clothing, but both these gestures are hidden by their bodies.

She is rather proud of how adept she's become at hiding physical contact with her husband from the rest of Vulcan.

Though T'Pau probably knows. T'Pau always knows.

"Sarek," she says, imploringly, opening her eyes to study his face. He doesn't look much different than he did twenty years ago. He's still just as handsome. And just as hard to convince of something. She touches his mind with hers. _What will we need?_

He answers her with impressions of images – rooms, a safe place, removed from others. Complete privacy. A place where they will not be interrupted. A place where no one can see the shame of his people and his complete loss of control.

Her fingers move gently along his. _I will tell Sakkath_, she says, shifting away from him.

_NO_

She stumbles – into him, at the very least – at the force of his mental voice. It's more than just a voice, it's a physical pressure on her mind. She's never felt this before, and she realizes he's moved his hand against hers so their palms and fingers touch. His presence in her mind is a force of nature, a hurricane of wind and rage, and she struggles not to show any outward reaction. Even so, she gasps his name.

The winds abate, the rage dims, but she sees the emotions in his eyes and feels the fire burning inside him.

_Sakkath has a bondmate of his own,_ she reminds him, doing her best to communicate mentally in spite of her rattled thoughts. She pictures T'Kan's pretty face, with her delicate cheekbones, and almost-pixie like chin.

Sarek, naturally, latches on to the fact that she considers T'Kan beautiful.

_You're being unreasonable_, she grouses.

_I am… compromised_, he agrees. _Speak with Sakkath._

She presses her hand against his firmly. She imagines her love as a feathery blanket, warm and soft and suffused with sunlight, and she pushes that mental image at him. In return, he sends her that strange Vulcan emotion that she equates with love but is actually so much more.

One day, she wants to dive into the place of his mind that he keeps so carefully locked away. She wants to swim into his depths and understand him completely.

Drawing away, she gives him a fleeting smile with her eyes. He settles into his seat once more, but he watches her like a le-matya stalking its prey.

"Sakkath," she says quietly as she approaches her husband's aide.

Sakkath is not a fool. He is very clever, very intelligent, and very astute. He has the unique ability to step into a room and immediately comprehend the relational dynamics between the people in it. It's why Sarek values him so much.

Inclining his head, he shifts his back to the rest of the room. Standing beside him, feeling Sarek's eyes on her back, she murmurs, "We are out of time. The Ambassador and I will need a very private room." Her eyes briefly meet his.

Sakkath's face remains impassive, but he gives her a curt nod. "Will you require anything more?"

She considers this. She prefers to see a Vulcan healer as soon as possible after her husband's time, but that won't be possible on Andoria. And she wouldn't reveal the bites and bruises to anyone other than a Vulcan healer. "Hypos for pain," she says. "Food. Water. Perhaps some bandages."

There is the slightest change in Sakkath's expression. He, like all Vulcans, hates discussing this particular quirk of their biology, and a hint of his shame shows through. His concern for Amanda, he would surely say, is completely logical: she is the Ambassador's wife, and after Sarek, she is the most valuable person in their group. To control Amanda is to control Sarek.

"I will make arrangements immediately, T'Sai Amanda."

* * *

He wakes her with the slide of his body into hers, and Amanda groans, arching her back to allow him deeper. With a contented purr, Sarek lifts her leg and drapes it over his hip. His lips touch the sensitive place behind her ear as the fingers of both his hands find hers and lace them together to bring his mind into hers.

She keens softly but is otherwise still, unwilling to open her eyes.

Languorous warmth ripples through her body, tendrils of heat from the embers of his ardor. His fingers brush against hers, and she murmurs contentedly.

Nuzzling that spot now, he releases one of her hands so he can stroke her breast. His mental whispers, mostly incoherent things, center on the delicateness of her body. She is small and fragile, but so strong. So smooth to his touch, so cool and so sweet.

Moaning quietly, she arches against him again, and his thumb traces a circle over her nipple. Her skin tightens and pebbles, and his purr against her neck is full of delight. That hand traces down her stomach, lingering on her ribs. There are already bruises blossoming on her skin, and he is careful to avoid them. He loves them, though, and he promises that later he will stretch her out on their bed and lick and kiss each wound before he slides into her welcoming body and makes her scream for him.

She shivers, and the tips of his fingers trace the outline of her navel in what shouldn't be but is an incredibly erotic caress. His name falls from her lips, a quiet whisper.

His hand flattens possessively over her stomach, his long fingers just touching that place between her legs that makes pleasure burn brightly in her. He shifts, moving even deeper into her body, his thrusts harder, and she senses his presence sinking more firmly into her mind.

The fire in him dances down her arms and across her spine, and she twists her head about in a sudden motion. It startles him just a bit, but her mouth is on his before he can react. The kiss is awkward, cricking her neck, but she needs his tongue in her mouth. She needs him to _move_ in her, to take her and brand her with his fire.

In a swift and fluid movement, he rolls her to her stomach. He doesn't pull out of her, somehow managing to keep inside her, and she cries out at the headiness of it. His hands fall to her hips, pulling her to her hands and knees.

_K'diwa_.

There's that word, the one that echoes inside her with all the depth of the ocean and the vast expanse of the skies. There are planets and stars and galaxies in that word, all of them painfully sweet and profoundly precious.

It fills her mind with the feeling of being adored, of being protected.

His hands slide up her sides, drawing her upright. Her thighs spread across his, her knees bracketing his, and he moves in powerful surges into her. She can barely breathe. He fills her so well, so perfectly, that there is no room in her body for breath.

Those hands stroke her ribs, brush lightly over her bruises again, and then rise to cup her breasts. His mouth trails over her shoulder to the place where it slopes into her neck, and she moans as he bites down. His pleasure is hers, rushing through her with the force of a river.

"Sarek," she gasps, his name stuttered and malformed on her lips. She rocks against him as best she can, struggling to find the right rhythm to move with and against him. "Sarek, please."

He doesn't laugh out loud, but she hears the quiet rumble of it in her mind. _Please?_ _Sanu?_ he asks her, his voice deep and rich and thick like chocolate or some kind of taffy. She whimpers, and she feels that laugh again in her mind. _Sanu… ra? Aitlu tu ra?_

She doesn't know how to communicate the crystalline pleasure of release in her mind. She can barely form cogent thoughts. It's unfair that he wants more than that from her. But he's asking what she wants, and she knows from experience that once she tells him _what_, he'll want to know _how_, because he is Vulcan and Vulcans demand exacting replies to their inquiries.

With a strangled cry of frustration and need, she forms the mental image of his fingers stroking between her legs as he moves in her, of her head thrown back and her lips parted as she gasps his name.

He obliges her, and, _oh_, the ecstasy of his touch pours through her. She writhes against him, and he lets her move as she will. His fingers play havoc between her legs, shamelessly seeking and provoking her pleasure. His other hand curls possessively around her neck, lightly caging her. She shudders and moans, and he nudges into specific parts of her mind, seeking the pleasure receptors there.

She climaxes with a ragged scream, her body undulating against his in a sinuous dance. He encourages her, urges her to keep moving, to take more of her pleasure from him, and she does without hesitation.

She's lost to the joy of being one spirit moving fluidly through two bodies. There is no division between Sarek and Amanda, only one creature of perfect beauty and boundless delight. Her emotions are as light as air and bright as the sun, shimmering onto the dark depths of his own abyssal feelings.

His fingers don't stop moving, his mind wraps her tighter in its embrace, and she's not sure if she comes again or if it's more of the same, endless wave of exultation and rapture.

His own release is accompanied by a snarl of pleasure, of her name transformed into something primal and animalistic. He drags her to the bed when he's done, pulling out of her and rolling her to face him.

She slides her hands over his naked chest, curling them over his jaw and brushing her fingers over his ears, and he shifts her close so that he can steal kisses from her swollen lips. He nibbles and bites, but only gently, catching her lower lip between his teeth and tugging. He nuzzles her cheek and then her neck, one hand at the small of her back, the other drifting up her face to her psi points.

Lightly, he brushes those points with his fingers. It's a faint, inquiring caress, and she murmurs an assent as she stares into his dark, beautiful eyes.

His mind sinks completely into hers. In a way, it's the same as when he makes love to her, but this lacks the single-minded and intense focus of that touch. This isn't to feed her his pleasure and take her own back into himself. This is how he holds her hand and how he hugs her all at once, how he envelops her in his presence and his person.

With a smile, she leans forward and kisses him lightly, feeling the kiss as both giver and receiver. His pleased purr reverberates in her own chest.

At his silent urging, she closes her eyes – and the world seems to change. She sees through his eyes, and he's looking at her, studying her face and committing it to memory again.

She is… exquisite to him. He finds the gray in her hair enchanting. The lines of laughter around her mouth are indescribably erotic to him; he appreciates that she has them in spite of twenty years on Vulcan. He finds the sweep of her lashes against her cheek a study in mathematical perfection. Her skin, so soft and pink, is an alluring contrast to his own that fascinates him.

He looks at her and sees the embodiment of beauty. He can't even consider turning his eyes to another. She is everything he could ever desire.

Amanda opens her eyes and urges him to close his own, and she returns the favor. She sweeps her eyes over his strong face, weathered by Vulcan's harsh climate and his own difficult position as an ambassador. There is a story on his face, and she reads it in the wrinkles and lines of his skin. His eyes, eyes that so many find dark and unfeeling, are warm and soft to her. He is protection and safety, the one person who stands between her and everyone else. He is her sword and her shield, her guardian and her lover.

His hands slip into her hair. Gently, he tips her head back so he can kiss her again. Between them, she feels his hard length against her thigh, and she sighs, more than ready for him to make love to her again.

His mouth stops just short of hers, and his entire body goes rigid.

Something sick and strange courses through her, one of his feelings, and she touches his cheek. "Sarek?"

He draws his hands away from her psi points and rises, looking over her shoulder toward the bedroom door.

Sakkath came through quite well, finding them a penthouse suite at a hotel not far from the starport. There are no other guests, and though there are other rooms sharing the floor with theirs, no one else will be staying in any of them. Sakkath saw to that.

There are guards, too; Sarek's entourage stands watch at the door to the suite and at the turbolift, taking turns to protect their ambassador while he is vulnerable.

The look in his eyes is dangerous. Frightening. His hand falls to her shoulder, stroking lightly down her arm as he looms over her.

"Sarek," she says again, scratching her nails down his chest to get his attention.

He sends an impression of danger over the bond.

"No," she murmurs, covering one of his nipples with her lips. She nibbles and licks, trying to distract him, but he will not be distracted. "It's just you and me," she promises him.

But she's not too sure. He can hear far better than she. His senses are far more acute. And in this state, with him ready to defend his mate should he need to, she would imagine his senses are even more heightened.

She reaches blindly for the thick bedcover they kicked to the side earlier in the day. Night. One of the two. Dragging it over her body, she shrinks into the safety of Sarek's shadow, watching him with wary, uncertain eyes.

A sound makes his eyes narrow. She doesn't hear it, but she hears the echo of it in her mind.

Slowly, he rises from the bed. There is nothing gentle about the way he moves. He is corded muscle and danger, and he moves with predatory grace toward the bedroom door.

He pauses in the doorway, glancing back at her. She nods. Nothing could convince her to move from their bed if he thinks they're in danger. But she shifts toward the bedside table. A phaser rests on the table's surface.

Sakkath gave that to her, too. As a precaution.

Her lips quirk, even though Sarek is _not_ amused by this particular train of her thoughts. Sakkath, she thinks, has no idea how much she enjoys her husband during this time. Sarek has grown accustomed to the idea of her liking his ravenous lack of control, and where he might have been offended by such a thought in the past, he now feels nothing but pleasure.

Curling her fingers around the phaser, she sits on the bed, wrapped in the thick comforter, and waits. Her husband disappears into the rooms beyond the bedroom, closing the door quietly behind him.

Every second is an eternity. Amanda deliberately keeps her mind separate from Sarek's, not sure how he would react to her presence there. She doesn't want to distract him more than is necessary. And she doesn't want to see through his eyes should he encounter an intruder.

She can imagine what he might do. She has seen him practice _Suus mahna_, and as much as he may claim it is a purely defensive art she knows he could do a great deal of damage with it.

Closing her eyes, she tries to focus on something to distract her that won't distract her husband. She wishes Vuhlkansu had conjugated verbs. But as it doesn't, she decides instead to work her way through multiplication tables.

_One times one is one. _

Sarek's tension resonates with her, stringing her own muscles tight.

_One times two is two_.

She swallows convulsively and forces her fingers, white-knuckled and tight on the phaser, to relax.

_One times three is three_.

Her knuckles hurt when she uncurls them, and she shivers slightly. She is being… illogical. Her husband is more than capable, and there is no chance anyone got through the guards.

_One times four is four_.

And why would they? There's no reason for anyone to want to see Sarek. Sakkath made excuses for them – the Ambassador was delayed by the storm but has work to accomplish. The Ambassador can't be disturbed.

_One times five is five_.

Fear claws at her anyway. She is naked on a foreign planet. It's unlikely, but there _could_ be someone in the next room with the intent to hurt her husband.

_One times six is six_.

She should have given him the phaser.

_One times seven is seven_.

Nodding to herself, she scoots to the edge of the bed, her mind made up.

_One times eight is eight_.

She'll call to Sarek over the bond so she can give him the phaser, and—

The door to the room slides open, but her husband isn't the one standing there. An Andorian man fills the doorway, a phaser in one hand.

She stares at him with incomprehension.

He does not hesitate. He lifts his arm and fires.

The blast doesn't hit her – she thinks a phaser blast should hurt, and because she doesn't hurt she clearly hasn't been hit – but she screams anyway. And not just aloud. She screams in her mind, too, a primal wail of fear that is echoed by her husband a moment later.

He blasts into her mind with all the subtly of a Constitution class Federation starship. It takes perhaps a fraction of a second for him to show her how to fire a phaser. Her arm moves reflexively, as if she's done this millions of times, and she shoots the Andorian.

As soon as she realizes what she's done, she drops the phaser. Nothing Sarek can say in her mind or impress upon her can keep the weapon in her hand as she stares at the blue blood spreading rapidly across the Andorian's shoulder.

Her husband's body slams into the Andorian's, sending the latter sprawling across the bedroom floor. His phaser skitters to a halt near Amanda's.

Amanda scrambles across the bed, shaking, her thoughts barely coherent. Sarek is still in her mind, and he is full of rage. He burns with it.

The fever of his time eclipses all rational and gentle thought, and his fist connects solidly with the Andorian's face – and Sarek enjoys it. The man groans, clawing desperately at Sarek's wrists and arms, but she knows Sarek is too strong for the man beneath him. And he has something to protect. The Andorian has nothing to motivate him.

A black loathing rolls through her followed by a burning so fierce Amanda can't understand why she isn't actually on fire. Her flesh feels like it should be peeling away from her bones, and her body feels too small to contain everything that she is and feels. Her senses are overwhelmed with a hatred that is darker than the depths of black and empty space.

Sarek is going to kill the Andorian. But he isn't going to do it gently. She sees his intent as clearly as if it were her own, and she lets out a hoarse, ragged scream.

Sarek freezes. His weight holds the Andorian down, but he stops attacking.

Their gazes meet, and for a moment, Amanda is able to find herself in the center of the storm of his emotions. He looks wild and fierce as he chokes the Andorian, and he sees himself through her eyes. He is… pleased. He is glad to be protecting his mate.

His hand goes to the Andorian's psi points, and he places a shield between their minds and hers. Amanda's eyes go wide as the Andorian starts to scream. It's the most horrific sound she's ever heard, a terrible death cry. She covers her mouth with her hand, dragging the comforter around her shoulders. She wants to look away, but she can't, and she knows that Sarek is ripping through the Andorian's mind to find out what he wants and why he's in their room.

And, presumably, how he got around the guards.

The screaming stops abruptly when Sarek breaks the Andorian's neck in a single, efficient gesture.

She understands that they need to call for Sakkath to take the body away. Amd she doesn't want to be in this room anymore. She doesn't to be anywhere near it and the death inside it.

_K'diwa_.

The word rolls through her mind like thunder. It is an assurance against all horrors, and it is a sweet, precious promise. She looks at her husband through watery eyes, and for the first time in their marriage she feels like she finally understands him. And his people.

There is no difference between love and protection to the Vulcans, she realizes. To be loved is to be protected and to be protected is to be loved. It is only logical. Maybe this is why they've done away with the concept of love in their own culture. It is redundant to them.

Crying, she reaches for him, and he envelopes her in his arms, holding her tightly. Even though she is scared – a little of him; she would be a fool not to be – she tries to form her thoughts into something orderly so he understands Sakkath has to take care of the body. And that she doesn't want to be near it.

He doesn't want another Vulcan male anywhere near her.

Whimpering, she presses her face into his neck. _Please_, she thinks.

His reaction to that one word is visceral. It rips through him at warp speed, and he responds just as quickly.

There is a blur of activity around her. She feels her husband pick her up, but her eyes are closed against the sight of the Andorian's body. But the image of his head at an unnatural angle to the rest of him seems burned into the back of her eyelids.

She hears voices. Feels her husband tremble with barely controlled rage. This is the fourth day, she thinks. It's possible all the sex and then the killing has taken some of the edge off. He has managed to find some semblance of civility.

But when Sakkath suggests someone who isn't Sarek tend to her, Sarek's mood turns dark and terrible again. And she panics just the smallest bit. She doesn't want someone else to take care of her. She wants her husband to keep her close and protect her. His rage is a terrible thing to behold, but she can feel him through their bond. She knows beyond any doubt that he would never turn that rage on her.

He settles on a couch with her in his arms in one of the other apartments, and his mouth immediately seeks hers. His teeth catch her lower lip, tugging gently, and then he kisses her. His tongue presses into her mouth, gently coaxing hers to respond.

She kisses him as though his kisses are air and she needs them to breathe.

The barrier between them slowly comes down, and as it falls, she begins to burn for him.

He tugs at the comforter around her, pulling it off her body and tossing it aside. Straddling him, she rocks herself against his length, whimpering as it slides against the slickness between her legs.

She can't understand how she wants sex right now.

He assures her it is a completely logical reaction.

This time, she kisses him. Her mouth is harsh and demanding over his, and she reaches between them to slide him into her without preamble.

They don't make love as much as they strive together for mutual completion, their bodies competing for the pleasure of a climax. He snarls and snaps at her neck, and she digs her nails into his shoulders in return, her eyes fixed on his.

When she comes in his arms, he wraps her in a tight embrace and takes her to the floor. Holding her to the ground, her legs wrapped high around his back, he starts the dance again, driving his body into her with an insatiable need.

* * *

T'Pau is less than thrilled.

Amanda can see the tightly controlled fury in the snap of her gaze as Sarek calmly explains precisely why he killed an Andorian. Vulcan High Command will make excuses for the Ambassador. Sarek himself will make no apologies.

For the most part, she doesn't think the rest of Andoria will care that he killed one of their own in self-defense. The Andorian was an assassin, sent to murder her husband and prevent him from further aiding one of the races seeking entry into the Federation. She isn't sure why preventing this arrangement is beneficial to the Andorians, but diplomacy isn't her area of expertise.

She can't wait to return to Vulcan to continue teaching. Most of her work is with off-worlders who are visiting Vulcan for an extended period of time – the children of Ambassadors and members of the Federation. But she has a few Vulcan students. She misses them.

And, as always when she thinks of her Vulcan students, she thinks of her son.

"Sarek," she says when he closes the comm channel with T'Pau. "Sarek, we—"

"We will not speak on it," Sarek says, knowing already what she wants to talk about.

Anger bubbles up in her alongside frustration. She's not sure whether he means to say their son is an _it_ or if _it_ refers to the situation, but either way, she isn't pleased with his words. "Not talking about it won't make it go away."

Sarek turns to her, inhaling softly. She feels his breath swirl in his lungs and senses his own tiredness – which is precisely why she's picking this battle now.

"It is of no concern."

"Sarek, you can't just cut Spock out of our lives."

He gives her a lengthy look. "We will not speak of this, wife."

Her hands ball into fists and she lets out a frustrated cry. He takes this in stride, used to her emotional outbursts in private, though he's thinking he prefers a different kind of outburst.

"And _you_ won't derail this conversation with sex, Sarek."

He lifts one brow. "I am not attempting to do so." He rises slowly, extending his fingers to her in the _ozh'esta_, and she isn't sure she wants to take them.

But she does because it's the good and right thing to do. She doesn't hide her opinions from him, though. She lets them pour through the bond. He is angry Spock went to Starfleet; she thinks his anger is foolish; he refuses to admit he is angry.

"He is accomplishing _good_ there," she says imploringly, willing him to forgive.

Sarek withdraws his fingers from hers. "We must leave Andoria," he says, stepping around her.

She scowls at his back. "Denying a problem exists won't make it go away."

He steps through the door, and she releases another strangled sound of irritation. Needing to vent her feelings in a physical way, she kicks a waste can and sends it sprawling across the hotel room.

It doesn't help.


	4. Let Us Hold to Each Other

Vulcan is gone. Where it existed in her husband's life is an empty hole.

They sit together in the medbay as medical staff bustle about and shout for hypos. They both verge on catatonic. Amanda feels the horror of his loss through their bond and fumbles with her own brush with death.

She shakes and trembles with the knowledge of her own mortality. She isn't sure she will ever again trust the ground to remain solid beneath her feet. She doesn't think she ever wants to see a mountain again. At the very least, she never wants to _stand_ on one again.

Her finger's touch Sarek's, sinking into the gaps between his fingers. He doesn't protest the touch, and T'Pau, who is seated on the biobed beside them and as silent and stunned as the rest of the remaining Vulcans, sees the touch and says nothing. For once, no Vulcan looks at Amanda's closeness to Sarek askance. And for once, he doesn't try to pull away.

She craves his touch, but she won't ask for more than that. The cliff may have nearly given way beneath her feet, but his entire planet was swallowed up by a singularity. Where Vulcan once hung in the vast expanse of space is an invisible, inescapable gravitational well. She is now very well aware of how quickly her life can be taken away, but he has just witnessed the destruction of his people.

And they are shaken.

They are grieving.

But they are not broken.

Whoever attacked Vulcan has made a grievous mistake. Rage boils under Sarek's controlled exterior and the numb shock on the surface of his thoughts. His rage is bone deep, inexorable and inexhaustible. The attacker has awaked the soul-searing wrath of the Vulcan people.

Through her bond with Sarek, she can feel their passion vibrating in the air around her. On the surface, they all appear as he does: collected, perhaps a bit shocked. But under that shock, their fury takes the form of an underwater earthquake. No one will know their rage until the tidal wave strikes and destroys everything in its path.

They are not broken. They have lost their world, but they are not broken.

The logical wall around Sarek's black pit of emotion holds strong, and the mind it protects is already working. He is considering every M-class planet he knows of, dividing them into different categories – suitable, passable, unsuitable, and then further flagging the suitable planets by their individual attributes. He measures their climates, their weather patterns, their tectonic plate movements. She has no doubt at least half the other survivors are doing something similar.

In the end, they terraform a planet so that it suits their needs. There is, naturally, an alien invasion in the midst of the process, but in the end, the planet is almost perfect for them. Its surface is a delicate balance of biomes chosen so that the planet can sustain itself and constant terraforming isn't necessary. The Vulcan need to preserve life forced their hand in that regard; they wished to keep the indigenous animal life alive.

So the planet is arid and mountainous about the equator, and to the north dry, grassy plains stretch on toward ice-capped poles. It has only these three diverse climates, and that appeals to the Vulcan people.

What doesn't appeal to them are the two massive oceans that they simply cannot do without. Without the oceans, so much larger than the old Vulcan's seas, the ecology of the planet collapses, and they cannot afford to constantly terraform just because they don't want water. The oceans breed impressive hurricanes that initially take the Vulcans by surprise.

At least as far as any Vulcan can be surprised.

When the first storm rolled in, pounding at the temporary, transparent aluminum housing, both Sarek and T'Pau stared out into the violent downpour and said "Fascinating."

But the planet calls to the Vulcan people for a simple reason: it pulses with life. It sings in the minds of its new inhabitants.

It is not perfect.

It is not Vulcan.

But it is acceptable.

Six years after Nero's destruction of Vulcan, Sarek awaits _her_ this time, a nervous presence in her mind. He finds the caves unnerving. Unfamiliar. This place is not the place of his ancestors, and he knows it through the smoke and flames of his time.

These caves are empty – of his people, of his family, and of meaning. There is no tradition here. The rock beneath his feet isn't hallowed.

He burns. He burns violently, but there is no lust in him. As Amanda hurries through the rough-hewn corridors and natural cave formations, she feels the flames chewing away that last of his control.

He does not smolder with lust.

The last leash on his emotions breaks, and he breaks with it.

She rushes into their caves and falls to her knees, sliding across the smooth floor on the soft fabric of her shift, and she wraps his sobbing form in her arms.

He curls against her chest and cries of anguish wrack his trembling body.

Silent, she strokes his hair and his naked back. Tears burn her eyes, too, but they don't fall. Her throat convulses, and she wishes she knew what to say. She wishes she had the words to ease his grief. But she can't offer him anything better than gentle touches.

He holds himself, his fingers digging into his arms, and his breath is reduced to sharp pants and gasps.

Through their bond, she feels nothing but a swamping depression, a tidal wave of pain and frustration and grief that had no outlet until this moment. For six years, he mourned his planet in the quiet, Vulcan way, but now he mourns it in the privacy of the caves with none of his control.

The force of his sorrow is unbelievable. She can't comprehend the feelings that reverberate along their bond. They are impressions. An empty maw surrounds him, a rough-edged patch of darkness. She associates grief with a cold, dead chill; he associates it with a crackling of electricity and a lick of fire. The roar of wind fills his mind.

She thinks she understands Surak a little more as she clings to her husband, curling over his naked back and wrapping him in her arms. If all Vulcan was once like this, utterly overcome by feeling, she understands why he would seek a better way. She can't comprehend the dark, deep, gripping hole of Sarek's sorrow, but she _can_ comprehend the danger of it. It would be easy for Vulcans to fall into these emotions and become completely ruled by them.

She isn't particularly good at meditating, but she has done her best to learn over the years. Not out of any sort of necessity, but because meditation is a part of her husband's culture and she wants to be a part of that culture. She takes a moment to center her mind.

Blocking out Sarek's anguished sobs is one of the hardest things she has ever done. She allows herself to hear them and then dismiss them in an effort to find the very core of herself. She listens only to her heartbeat and her own breath, slowing them both with long, deep inhalations. She pushes away extraneous thought until she is quiet. Still. She is at once very small and very big.

Sliding off Sarek's back, she settles on her knees at his side. She wedges her index and middle fingers between his fingers and the skin of his arm, and braces herself for the soul-wounding pain that she knows will come flooding through their bond.

When it hits, it's like a kick in the gut. Winded, she gasps for breath and struggles to orient herself. For a moment, the world goes white, and she feels like she's in the midst of a blizzard she can't survive.

Two words quiet the storm in his soul. "_S'ti th'laktra_," she murmurs in his ear, her lips brushing the green-tinged tip of it. _I grieve with thee_. This time, she opens herself entirely to his pain. She lets it swamp her, but she does not let it drag her down. She is an island, and even if the waters of his grief strip away everything on her surface, the core of her remains untouched.

"_Taluhk nash-veh k'dular_," she whispers, both aloud and in her mind. She lets her words resonate across their bond and pushes through all her affection as well. She does her best to communicate her feelings wordlessly, in the Vulcan way.

Love is gentle and warm, she thinks, and she remembers how baby Spock's cheek felt against hers. It is protective, and she recalls how they curled around Spock's body, just watching him breathe and sheltering him with their bodies. It is kind and giving, and she thinks of the times they shared a ceremonial cup of water and he gave it to her to drink first.

Slowly, so slowly, he turns toward her. Precious little of his tension eases, and when he looks at her, she sees the anguish in his eyes.

She kisses the tears from his cheeks. Her lips brush his eyes and his psi points, and with each touch of her lips to those points, she can feel his mind against her own. Through their bond, she senses how he takes comfort in her mental presence. He turns into the touch of her mind and presses into her slowly.

His grief is a hard canker in both their minds, but she leaves it be. There's no reason to deny him his pain, and there's no reason to take it away from him.

Instead, she kisses the slant of his eyebrows, the strong line of his nose, and the corners of his mouth. She nips his lips gently, then a bit harder when she feels his burgeoning interest. Nuzzling his cheek with hers, she moves her mouth toward the line of his jaw. Her tongue touches his earlobe and travels along the outside of his ear, tracing up to the point. He shivers under her, turning toward her.

He uncurls, drawing upright with her. His eyes focus on her mouth, and she feels his need to kiss her the way a parched man needs water.

She touches her mouth to his, tentative and light. She isn't sure how much he needs, so she is content to wait for him to take. His response is uncertain and hesitant. He makes no demands of her. Rather, he maps her mouth with his. He takes time to relearn precisely what he likes from a kiss, and she allows him his freedom.

But she is not passive.

Drawing her hand away from his, she smooths her fingers over his cheeks and brushes his psi points before sliding into his hair. She traces his ears as he kisses her, her fingers following the curve of his skin over the delicate, pointed tips and down the other side. Her nails run lightly along the back of his neck, and he shivers in response.

Gently, she presses her fingers against the muscles at the base of his neck, working through the tension she finds there. He groans against her mouth, and he reaches for her. He draws her toward him, and she sinks into his embrace, sliding onto his lap. Her legs wrap around his back loosely, her arms curled around his as she continues to knead his tight muscles, and she takes control of their kisses.

Her mouth slants over his, sweetly plying his lips with her own. She gives him little kisses on his lower lip and traces it with her tongue. When he gasps with pleasure, she presses their mouths together and coaxes his tongue into dancing with hers.

Sweeping her hands down his shoulders, she catches both his hands and settles them firmly on her thighs, under the fabric of her thin shift. The heat of his hands feels like fire against her cool legs, and his tentative touch kindles flame under her skin.

She cradles his face in her hands, kissing him in slow, deep draughts, like he is her addiction and she can't get enough of the spicy, hot taste of him. Her body moves against his without any conscious thought, rocking over him as he grows hard against her core. He is already naked, and she is barely clothed, and every roll of her hips brushes her over him.

His breath catches in his throat.

Drawing back, she combs her fingers through his hair, looking at his face. Head tipped back, lips parted, eyes closed, he looks like a decadent god seeking solace in the arms of a mere human woman.

His fingers dig briefly into her thighs. _You are more than that._ He doesn't have enough coherence to think the words, but she knows that is precisely what he means to say when images tumble into her mind.

"Let me love you," she says against his chin, her lips a satiny whisper over his skin.

She kisses down the column of his throat. Her mouth touches his collar bone, and then her tongue takes in the spicy taste of him, sweeping along the line of his collarbone. She nips him gently when she reaches one end, and she nibbles her way across his chest to the opposite side.

Settling her hand on his shoulder, she pushes lightly. He leans back after a moment's hesitance, dragging one hand from her thigh to support him on the ground.

Ducking her head, she kisses down his chest. Her mouth closes around one of his nipples, and a quiet groan comes from deep within his chest. His thumb begins tracing small circles high on the inside of her thigh, and she hums softly against his skin, nuzzling her cheek against him.

Focused on him, on the taste of his skin and the feel of him beneath her, she sucks slightly on one nipple, catching it with her teeth and giving him a small bite.

He snarls above her, but the sound is pleased, and when she glances up, she finds him watching her with great interest.

Unwinding her legs from around his waist, she pushes carefully to her knees and then sidles backward, out of his lap. She senses his confusion, and his unease, but she doesn't pull away from his skin. Her mouth follows the lines of muscle on his abdomen. She has grown old, but he remains much the same, just as handsome as when she first met him.

She pauses over his heart, her lips lingering there as she stretches between his legs, lying on her side. One of her arms drapes over his hip, her fingers dancing over the small of his back. She traces the lower reaches of his spine, enjoying the difference between their bodies.

Pulling her lips away from his heart, she closes her teeth over his hip bone and bites down hard enough to bruise him, and he moans, the sound low and uninhibited. Emboldened by his response, she kisses her way across his abdomen, moving carefully around his length, deliberately denying him any contact. He hisses softly, watching her with narrowed eyes when she glances up at him.

Giving him a mischievous smile, she bends down and bites his opposite hip, giving him the same treatment he lavished upon her their first time. He shivers beneath her touch, his breath coming in shallow pants, and she feels his anticipation through the bond. He is eager, ready to take her, but holds back to see what she will do with him.

Curiosity: the fatal flaw, she thinks, of the entire Vulcan species. They will do anything to satisfy their curiosity.

Brushing her fingers over his back and chest, Amanda settles comfortably between his legs. Her hand curls softly around him, and a shudder wracks his body. She feels the soft touch of her own hand through their bond, touching him and touched. His pleasure coils low in her belly, hot and insistent.

She glances at him as she slides her hand down his length, watching his eyelids drift shut. His lips part on a quiet sigh just before she touches her lips to the tip of him. He is hot and spicy under her tongue, and he sucks in a sharp breath of surprise. Then his hand is in her hair, not forcing or guiding her, but simply holding on as she takes him into her mouth.

He never seems to know quite what to do with himself when she does this. His fingers scrape lightly against her scalp, shifting restlessly. She feels the lust building in their bond along with his need to move, and she supposes it's not necessarily a bad thing that he doesn't know what to do with himself. He'd rather climax inside other parts of her body.

She moans at the thought, unable to stop from projecting the image, and he snarls softly, pulling her off his length. He guides her mouth to his, but when their lips touch, he is still passive, letting her control the intensity of the kiss.

Her mouth is gentle on his as she coaxes slow responses from him. Her arms wrap around his shoulders, and she rocks slowly against him.

When he drags his fingers over her spine, she arches against him. His fingers continue down, curling under her to stroke against the heat of her core. With a groan, he presses his face against her neck, breathing in sharply. Her own scent floods her nose. It's a sharp contrast to his own. Where he smells warm and rich and earthy, she smells bright and citrusy, like lemons and grapefruit with a dash of tangerine.

Shivering, she presses against him, one hand framing his face. Her fingers brush over his ears as she moans her quiet approval. Her other hand drifts between them, brushing his fingers away before guiding him into her. He groans against her neck as they move together, slowly and sweetly, her body rocking against his.

Her climax triggers something in him. His emotions shift, and his entire demeanor changes.

He sweeps her into his arms, keeping her legs locked about his waist, and he takes her to bed. In the back of his mind, she senses his desire to make something of this place. It doesn't have the history of _his_ caves, of _his_ family, but he can make a new history.

Tumbling onto the bed, shielding her from the fall with his body, he moves in her again. She wraps herself around him as his hands grasp her hips.

There is life in the coming together of their bodies. There is something new and precious. As his mouth finds hers, his teeth worrying her lip and his tongue easing the ache, he touches her mind with his and gently urges her to follow as he retreats backward.

She does, eagerly, and there is a strange sensation of leaving her body behind. When she pauses to glance behind her, in the strange pseudo landscape of the mind, she sees a glittering silver-blue cord stretching into the distance. Her way home.

He brushes her mind again, and she runs toward him, plunging into his mind.

She finds an eternity there. His memories are little globes of golden light that sing when she touches them, and she laughs for the joy of it. Each memory she touches comes with its own torrent of emotion, as though the brush of her fingers turns a spigot of feelings inside of him.

He offers her the memories one at a time, and though she has experienced many of them with him and through their bond, she hasn't experienced the full rush of his feelings. They fill and suffuse her, twining about her and into her very soul.

Times before, she thought there was no difference between Amanda and Sarek, but such contact pales in comparison to this. This is an exultant moment of understanding. There are no barriers between them.

There is only truth.

She wants to offer this to him, too, but his lips on her neck distract her from the mental focus it takes her to share her thoughts with him. His teeth make that silver-blue cord tug against her skin, and it pulls her out of his mind and back into her body.

She isn't sure how much time has passed, but surely it's been hours. He lies on his back, and she curls against his side, her head pillowed on his shoulder, and his fingers stroke small circles on her hip.

He is surprisingly clear-eyed when he looks at her, but surely days haven't passed.

With a rumbling mental laugh, he leans down and brushes his lips over her cheek. _Mine_, he tells her. But not with words. They don't need words anymore. They haven't needed words, she supposes, for quite some time.

She wonders if all bonds are like this and if all bondmates somehow move beyond words to images and impressions and feelings.

His response is uncertainty, and his hand sweeps up her side to stroke the underside of her breast. She decides, as his other hand tips her chin back and his mouth touches hers, that it really isn't important.

* * *

T'Pau comes to their home a week after Sarek's time. Sarek is away, and Amanda is tending the garden when T'Pau arrives. The plant species from Vulcan that were deemed noninvasive by a survey team thrive in her garden. Several carnivorous plants grow along the path, too small yet to move independently. To survive, they need dry, rocky soil and the little plains creatures she feeds them.

T'Pau doesn't announce her presence. She simply enters the house and comes to the gardens in the back, and Amanda isn't surprised by it. She has grown used to the Vulcan tendency to simply walk into the homes of family members. It's an honor, she thinks, that T'Pau doesn't consider her a foreigner that needs advanced warning.

"I have come from the caves," T'Pau says, settling on one of Amanda's benches.

Amanda pushes her hair from her face, watching T'Pau with a vaguely curious expression as she pulls one last weed from her garden. Tugging off her gloves, she settles on the bench beside T'Pau. There is a healthy distance between them, but not as much as there might have been ten or fifteen years ago.

She does not press T'Pau for details. It would be the human thing to do, but Amanda isn't so human anymore.

"You did well," T'Pau says, graciously inclining her head.

Amanda doesn't know what T'Pau means. "I… Forgive me, I don't understand, _oko-mekh_."

T'Pau is quiet so long that Amanda thinks she isn't going to explain at all. It wouldn't be surprising, really; there's plenty T'Pau never feels the need to explain. Finally, T'Pau says, "It is strange that a human should know us better than we know ourselves."

This confuses Amanda, too, but she makes no comment.

"Do you know why the caves on Vulcan mattered?"

It takes her a moment realize the question isn't rhetorical. "No, _oko-mekh_."

"Because they were filled with _memories_," T'Pau says with such feeling that Amanda is momentarily stunned. "They were the places where we birthed our young, where we buried our dead, and where our most sacred rituals were held. We are a psychic race, and over the years, the rock took into itself the psychic energy we gave it. Our hopes. Our dreams." She pauses and looks at Amanda with an entirely human expression of wistful nostalgia. "Our _feelings_, _ko-fu_."

Sarek's family tree has always remained a confusing snarl to her, so Amanda isn't precisely sure how T'Pau is related to him. What matters is that T'Pau is the head of his clan and to be afforded all respect – which is why Amanda always calls her _honored mother_.

Until this day, T'Pau has never given Amanda a family title.

This day, Amanda is T'Pau's daughter, and she feels the sting of tears in her eyes and a strange combination of relief and love.

"We had years to fill those caves," T'Pau continues, her gaze shifting to stare over the dry desert sands. "And years to devote ourselves to Surak. But we _feel_. You know that more than perhaps any other. You know why we choose logic over emotion."

T'Pau's eyes shift to Amanda. "Sometimes," she says, "it surprises me to see your rounded ears."

This is almost too much for Amanda to take. T'Pau has never had so many kind words for her. Emotion wells inside her, something strong and beautiful, and she struggles to keep it from her face.

"You have helped us fill our caves with our memories. With yours and Sarek's. They are… so much more vibrant than our own. It is impossible not to feel them there. It will be good, I think, for you to find your rest in this place."

Amanda inhales quietly. "_Oko-mekh_, I am honored, but I am in good health." At least, she thinks she is, and as much as T'Pau's words do her a profound amount of honor, she's a bit terrified by the topic of her own death.

"Of course you are," T'Pau says drily. "And with many more years of life in you, I hope." She sounds like a human grandmother, and Amanda can't help it when her lips twitch into a small smile. "We'll need more of your human memories in those caves. They _stick_ better than ours."

When T'Pau leaves, Amanda isn't entirely sure she understands everything her Honored Mother said, but she understands enough. And she is deeply gratified.


End file.
